Aftershave Ocean
by Patrick the Stump
Summary: Brad is just really, really doesn't know what the hell he feels for Patrick. Patrick is just really, really tired of waiting for Brad to make up his mind.


**AN:** This is for Middy, who is seriously one of the most amazing people I know. Happy Christmas, pet, have a good'un. I had to keep the tradition alive by choosing you for my secret Santa, and I really hope you like this. Love you!

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_'You're coming up for air,_

_Happier down there_

_In your Aftershave Ocean_

_But that's difficult to face_

_Floatier than space_

_In your Aftershave Ocean'_

_ - The Vaccines_

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**Aftershave Ocean**

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The first time Brad kisses him, Patrick smells like cigarette smoke and that lemon scented shampoo that he borrows from Sam. They're both kind of high and it's short and sloppy and leaves a funny taste in Brad's mouth; it's not a bad taste, just different. Brad pushes away, glaring at Patrick, and Patrick just shrugs. He takes another drag of his cigarette, looking up at Brad from underneath his eyelashes. There's something there that's not quite mocking and not quite disdainful, but more like he's saying, _well, that wasn't so bad now, was it_, which probably would've been more effective if Patrick's pupils weren't so blown out from the weed and the kiss. Brad just shakes his head, turning on his heels. He won't run away, certainly not, he'll just swiftly jog.

"Earth to Brad, man," the guy next to him says, shoving at his shoulder. They're sat at the lunch table, surrounded by rowdy football players. Brad snaps out of it.

"What were you saying?" Brad says, turning pointedly away from the person that he _definitely wasn't even looking in the first place _

Brad would like to say that he doesn't get jealous, at least not easily. He's a pretty calm guy, most of the time, and he wouldn't be bothered about somebody chatting up his girlfriend or dancing with her for a while, as long as he got her back eventually. He seemed to be breaking a lot of rules with Patrick, though, because when he sees him dancing jokingly with Charlie and Sam, he feels his skin crawl and an unfamiliar, unwelcome heat of jealousy curdle and twist in his stomach. He's too drunk to remember whose party he's at and okay, he probably doesn't know the way home, but that doesn't stop him from storming out of the front door, pushing right past Patrick and his friends, accidentally on purpose ramming into him with his shoulder. Brad definitely doesn't look back – well, maybe he peeks a little.

He doesn't make it to the gate, though. He hears footsteps behind him; loud and quick, and he's not sure whether to run or hide. He was too drunk to do either effectively, and ends up falling, rather ungracefully, against the garden wall. He knows it's Patrick, but he doesn't look up at him. He doesn't really know how he's feeling right now; embarrassed, definitely; kind of confused from the alcohol, maybe. There was also a small tingle of pride in his chest that Patrick had followed _him _outside. Patrick had chosen _him _over Sam. Patrick had chosen _him_ over Charlie. Patrick had chosen _him_.

No. That was stupid. Patrick hadn't chosen him at all, Patrick probably wanted to punch him in the face and tell him to _stop being such a fucking fag_.

And on top of that, who said that _Brad_ had chosen Patrick? Who said _Brad_ even wanted Patrick in the first place? That Patrick meant anything to him? Brad knew the answer to that already.

"You're such an ass," Patrick said, and Brad pointedly looked away like a spoilt child. He kept his eyes firmly focused on a streetlight across the road. Patrick sat down on the wall next to him.

"Dude," Patrick said, jabbing him in his side, and with that, Brad whirled around. He wasn't sure what he was going to do. Punch Patrick in the face, probably, or at least call him a few nasty names to get it out of his system. But he's met with Patrick's shit-eating grin and the happy crinkle by his eyes and Brad just deflates. He can't do this.

He buries his face into Patrick's neck, his nose wrinkling at the strong scent of aftershave mixed in with the sweat and the heat from the party.

"You don't smell like you," Brad says, and groans. That came out wrong, he thinks. But Patrick just laughs, running a hand through Brad's short hair.

"Sam bought me some new aftershave for my birthday," he wrinkles his nose too, "I don't really like it either."

Brad lifts his head, something in Patrick's words stirring him, "I missed your birthday."

Brad cringes again, that sounded really, really stupid.

Patrick chuckles, probably at the splotches of red that are creeping up from Brad's neck to his ears, and says, "It doesn't matter; it was last weekend, anyway."

Brad sits up fully. He feels embarrassed enough as it is, but whatever had been in his drink was on a mission to completely cut off any brain-to-mouth transitions, so he continues.

"It _does_ matter," Brad says, standing up. He's unsteady on his feet as he pulls Patrick up, dragging him quickly out of the gate.

"Where are we going," Patrick asks as Brad leads him forward, walking straight into a parked car. Brad blinks, as if the car has just that second materialised from thin air. He begins to rummage through his pocket, pulling out all sorts of things; breathe mints, spare change, cigarettes, a condom. _A condom_. Patrick raises his eyebrows.

"I've got them," Brad says, pulling out his car keys and stuffing everything else back into his pocket. Patrick snatches them from him before he has time to open the doors.

"You can't drive home like that," he says, shaking his head, "You're a mess – get in the other side."

Half an hour and six wrong left turns later, they're parked outside of Brad's house. During the journey, Brad had retreated back into his usual grumpy self, staring, still embarrassed out of the passenger-seat window.

He's about to get out, stomp back to his front door and stumble up the stairs, but he makes the mistake of looking over at Patrick, whose got that stupid grin on his face again, like Brad's his private little joke, and Brad just snaps. There's no other way to describe it, really, than Brad kind of just jumps him. Or that's how it seems to Patrick, because one minute he's chuckling at how funny Brad looks when he's drunk, and the next Brad's on his lap with his tongue down is throat and his hands in Patrick's hair. Brad pulls back for air and Patrick is still smiling, which seems to piss Brad off again because within seconds he's back to kissing that stupid smile of that idiot's face. Patrick is definitely not complaining, especially with Brad shifting above him, groaning as he bites Patrick's bottom lip between his teeth. Brad's gasping for air when he pulls back, his heart rate ecstatic and his breath coming out in short, sharp bursts. He rests his forehead against Patrick's, his pulse finally starting to slow down.

"Come inside?" Brad says, his eyes fluttering to his house, and with that look, Patrick really, really can't say no.

Brad unlocks the door and pulls Patrick into the house making shushing noises against his finger, giggling.

"Are your parents home?" Patrick asks, his ears straining in the darkness as he's pulled up the stairs. Brad shrugs, leading him into his room and pushing him against the door.

"I'm not gay, you know," Brad mumbles as he kisses Patrick's neck. It still reeks of that cologne.

Patrick laughs and shrugs off his jacket, letting it slide to the floor.

"I'm definitely, definitely not gay," Brad says against Patrick's jaw, his body pinning the slimmer boy to the door. Brad has his knee lodged in between Patrick's legs and he groans. Patrick really, really hates himself for what he has to do.

As gently as he can manage, he pushes Brad away from him, "Look, this isn't going to happen."

Brad's face changes from confusion to anger in a second, and he starts towards Patrick, his fists balled up at his sides.

"Whoa there," Patrick places a hand on Brad's chest, "Look – what would happen when you wake up tomorrow morning? You'd freak out and probably punch me in the face. You'd regret it – completely - and you'd probably wake your parents up and I really, really don't want to get punched in the face by _two_ people in one day. So just – I can't, okay. I just can't." Patrick's voice was steady – except for maybe a really tiny quaver at the end that he prayed to god Brad hadn't heard. He turned on his heels and walked out the door. Patrick definitely doesn't look back – well, maybe he peeks a little.

When he wakes up in the morning, Brad's got a blistering headache and there's a jacket lying on his floor. It still smells of that goddamn aftershave.

Patrick's sitting in class on Monday when he finds the note in his bag:

_You left your jacket at my _

_house. You should probably_

_come and pick it up or something._

_We need to talk,_

_Brad._

Patrick's had his bag with him all day and he really has no idea how Brad's managed to slip him the note. He's going to go to his house, though. Only to pick up the jacket. _Definitely_ not to talk with Brad. Well, okay, maybe they'd talk a little.

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**AN**: Okay, there was going to be smut but I was watching the Muppets Christmas Carol and I dare you to try writing gay porn with Kermit the frog glaring at you disapprovingly. Please review?


End file.
